


from myself away

by northern



Category: Hannibal (TV)
Genre: M/M, Murder Husbands, Sonnets, hannibal's eidetic memory, lady murasaki is mentioned, thoughts about mortality
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-06-27
Updated: 2017-06-27
Packaged: 2018-11-19 16:41:00
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 988
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11317464
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/northern/pseuds/northern
Summary: Hannibal and Will visit a chapel in France.





	from myself away

**Author's Note:**

> I like to write from random words, and the ones I got for this were: sestet, attourneyship, exasperation. The sonnet quoted was written by Petrarca and can be found in full here: http://www.ualr.edu/rpyoder/petrarchsonnet24indeath.htm
> 
> Thank you damnslippyplanet and elizaria for checking this for me!

When Lady Murasaki died, a message arrived via the channels he'd set up long ago. The attorney responsible for sending messages on had long since been replaced, and replaced again. When Hannibal checked discreetly, the firm had changed its name. No matter – they had fulfilled their responsibilities.

The funeral had already been held, but that was no reason to neglect a visit.

"So now, there is no one," Will proclaimed, unpacking his duffel bag. The garments within were wrinkled, as expected, but Will did not hang them to remedy the problem, only placed them, still folded, on top of the hotel room dresser. Hannibal stood in the doorway, forcing himself not to let his eyes linger.

Instead he answered Will's question. "If by 'no one' you mean no one who knew me when I was young, you are correct. It's possible, some family acquaintance when I was very young… but no, no one important is left."

Will looked at him. "I meant family," he said.

Hannibal smiled slightly. "There is only you," he said.

Will looked pleased at that, as well he should.

***

The chapel was well known to him. He had spent many summer days in its still, cool interior, walking among the faded inscriptions and gleaming decorations. His aunt had not required him to attend service since she was not herself devout, but he had gone a few times for the atmosphere of the thing. The priests stopped asking him to come to their study groups when they found out who he was. Robert Lecter had funded the great part of the renovation of the interior walls. His only request had been that a space be set aside for him and his wife to be buried in an alcove. The practice of interring people in the chapel actual had been long abandoned because of the lack of room, but Robert's money had created space where there was none, and two stone sarcophagi in neoclassical style so as to better blend in with their surroundings. The previous occupants of the space were either consigned to darkness in the underground sanctum or outside in some unmarked grave. Hannibal had never asked about it.

A few motes of dust drifted in the sunlight, filtered by the mosaic windows set in the opposite wall. Hannibal felt his own shadow walk past, his former self in flux and turmoil, still undecided, finding a moment's peace with the dead.

"When my uncle was interred here," he said, "I still lived with my aunt when I was not away at medical school. Little has changed."

Will studied the plaques; the plain one for his uncle with the dates of his birth and death and the more elaborate for Lady Murasaki. "This is a poem," he said, a hint of a question in his voice.

"It is the second part of a sonnet by Petrarca," Hannibal said. "It was engraved before I even came to live here."

Will eyed the text, his lips forming a word silently here and there. "He assumed his wife would die before him?" he asked, turning back around. "What does it say? My French isn't good enough."

"There are several translations from the original Italian into English. I enjoy this one." He closed his eyes and called the page up before reciting:

_"And yet I live -- but that I live bewail,_   
_Sunk the loved light that through the tempest led_   
_My shattered bark, bereft of mast and sail:_   
_Hushed be for aye the song that breathed love's fire!_   
_Lost is the theme on which my fancy fed,_   
_And turned to mourning my once tuneful lyre."_

When he opened his eyes, Will was staring into nothing, perhaps thinking of his own ship out at sea, guiding lanterns smashed to darkness. After a few moments had passed by, Hannibal continued quietly. "She lived some forty years with those lines waiting for her, meant for a grieving husband."

"Did you kill him?" Will asked finally.

Hannibal felt his breath catch on a stab of love for him. He waited for a few beats of his heart, to make sure his voice was even. "If I had seen these words and known them longer, perhaps. But he died just before my arrival. I never knew him, save for a visit when I was a young boy."

Will nodded, accepting this truth as readily as he would have the other. He took a few steps back from the alcove. The light from the window painted his face in warm yellow and dull red.

"It shouldn't be possible to tell the difference of one season from another in here," Will said, "but the dust smells like summer."

"And it will stay summer for a little while yet," Hannibal agreed. He put his hand on Will's shoulder, felt the flesh and breath of him.

The look Will gave him was full of knowing, with a hint of sadness. There was no telling what had prompted it, but it passed as soon as it had come.

"Do you want to look at the castle?" Will asked. "See what happened to it?"

"No. There is no need."

The shadow of his younger self was no longer there. Hannibal knew it would wander the aisles from time to time, but there was nothing tugging at him to stay there. He took Will's arm and turned them toward the exit. "There are a few hours left of the day and I saw a cheese maker not far from here. We may as well bring some decent cheese back with us, if you have no objection?"

Will scanned the chapel as they walked, craning his head to look back at the silent graves of stone, but then he turned back to Hannibal and smiled. "You always complain about quality," he said.

The familiar argument made his steps feel lighter. "And you never do," he smiled his reply, comfortable on his tongue.


End file.
